


The Price of Peace

by LadyBrooke



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hopeful Ending, Insanity, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25151515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBrooke/pseuds/LadyBrooke
Summary: Fëanor fell into madness in the wake of Maedhros’ capture, his parents’ deaths, and the loss of the Silmarils.Fingolfin could only hold onto the hope that Fëanor will return to himself once more.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	The Price of Peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daedalius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daedalius/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this treat!

It had begun several weeks prior, when Fingon had left the camp upon discovering Maedhros’ fate. “You will not leave me,” Fëanor had ordered. 

Fingolfin had nodded. It was not as though he could have anything else, with his half-brother completely lost to grief and madness, and his wish to spare their remaining children any possible pain. “I will not.” 

“They all left - Amil, Atar, Nelyo.” 

“Nelyo may not be dead.”

“If he is not, than why has he not returned to me?” Fëanor had asked. 

“Nerdanel left you, and she is not dead.” That was likely not the wisest thing he had ever said. 

“She was my lover,” Fëanor said. Then he had frowned, looking towards the forge. 

Fingolfin thought, with the benefit of hindsight, that he should have expected to find himself like this, strung up in jewels in Fëanor’s bed. His half-brother seemed to make more each day, and whatever pain Fingolfin had hoped to spare their children was almost lost. He clung to the knowledge that however distressed Turgon and Curufin were at all of this, that distress could not possibly compare to the distress they would feel at the loss of either Fëanor or himself. 

Then Fëanor was on top of him again, that same fey light in his eyes as when he had first taken Fingolfin to bed. 

“You will not leave me for Námo’s embrace,” Fëanor said as he thrust in. 

“No,” Fingolfin said. “Never.” 

“Good,” Fëanor said, even as he used Fingolfin’s hair to expose his throat and kiss it. “I would not be without another I love.”

Fingolfin closed his eyes. “I love you too.”

Fëanor did not respond again, merely continuing to take Fingolfin until they both had come. 

“When I recover the Silmarils, I think I shall give them to you to hold,” Fëanor said afterwards. 

Fingolfin almost asked, but then Fëanor’s hands were once more on his buttocks, and Fëanor’s fingers were probing his entrance. 

“Yes,” Fëanor said after a moment. “I shall place them within you. My greatest works, held inside my lover and holding the marks of my possession of you inside your body. Would you not like that, Ñolofinwë?”

No, Fingolfin thought, he would not. Not like this, not when Fëanor so clearly had lost all his sense and only loved him due to the grip of madness upon him. But he could not say that. “I will gladly accept all gifts my king grants me.” 

“Not just your king.” Fëanor pulled back for a moment. “Your lover too, who has forbidden you to leave.” 

“I am aware,” Fingolfin said. 

“Obviously not well enough. Turn over, I shall have you again until you know you are mine.”

It burned. Fëanor had always ran hot, but normally Fingolfin was able to ignore such. But now, strapped to the bed or Fëanor’s throne by his own hair, telling his half-brother half-truths until Fëanor smiled once more and agreed to let Fingolfin’s remaining children do as they wished, Fingolfin could not ignore it. 

“Ñolofinwë?” 

“My apologies.” Fingolfin trailed his hands down Fëanor’s sides, avoiding the scars from the balrogs’ flames. “I was lost in thought.” 

“Am I not enough for you?” Fëanor asked. 

“Always, brother,” Fingolfin said, pushing back against Fëanor’s cock until his brother gasped and Fingolfin almost could ignore that he did not wish to be here and his entire spirit ached with pain. “But I worry that you have pushed yourself too hard, too fast.” 

“I will not stop until you know you are mine.” Fëanor kissed him. 

Fingolfin shook his head. “I know I am, Fëanáro. I know.” 

His thighs burned from holding himself up when Fëanor entered him again. “You do not. You never do.” 

“Perhaps I wish only that you had given me a choice, instead of taking me -”

“You should not have needed a choice.” Fëanor began to thrust more wildly, holding Fingolfin still. “You are mine.”

He was Fëanor’s, and that was the entire problem in how his brother viewed them.

“My lord,” came a shout from the corridor as Fëanor spilled inside him once more. “My lord! Prince Findekáno has returned! The High-Prince is with him!” 

Both Fëanor and Fingolfin froze. 

Then Fëanor leapt off the bed, and Fingolfin barely had time to call his brother back before he threw the door open. 

“You need to dress yourself first,” Fingolfin said. “Maitimo would likely prefer to see his father clothed.”

Fëanor nodded, not saying anything. There was a strange light in his eyes as he untied Fingolfin from the bed. Then they were rushing through the corridors, Fingolfin pushing himself to keep up with his brother’s pounding footsteps even as he ached for rest. Fëanor grabbed his arm as they ran, pulling him along until they reached a door crowded by their children. 

Fingon had obviously thought that Maedhros’ return would fix everything, and even with dried semen coating the inside of Fingolfin’s thighs and the jewelry Fëanor had made digging into his skin under the robes Fingolfin had thrown on in the wake of the guards’ shouts, Fingolfin could not bring himself to tell his son of all that had happened. 

“Atar,” Fingon said, clearly torn between pressing his father for answers and returning to Maedhros’ side, “you do not look well. Neither does Fëanáro.”

As though summoned by his name, Fëanor appeared from his son’s room. “My son wishes to see you again, nephew.”

Fingon did not glance back as he strode through the door. 

“You should go back to your rooms, Ñolofinwë. I am sure you are in need of rest.” 

It was unsettling watching Fëanor walk away without another word. 

Fingolfin waited a moment, sure this was a test. Fëanor still did not return or call back for Fingolfin to attend him, and finally Fingolfin returned to his own rooms.

He did not see Fëanor that day, or the next. He did see Fingon and Maedhros, who did not ask any questions of him, and Turgon and Aredhel, who he begged to not speak to Fingon or Maedhros of all that had occurred. Once they had agreed, he retreated to the library. 

It was there he found Fëanor on the third day. 

“Look at me, Nolofinwë,” Fëanor said. 

Fingolfin lifted his eyes slowly, not wanting to see the madness again. 

It was not madness in his half-brother’s eyes this time, but guilt and sorrow. “Fëanáro?” 

Fëanor kept his head high, even as Fingolfin noticed his hands trembling slightly. “When I saw your son carrying Maitimo, it was as though my world had ended again. I was overjoyed, and yet beneath that was the realization of what I had done to you.” 

“I did not try to stop you,” Fingolfin said. 

“Because you wished to keep your children safe from your mad half-brother, no doubt.” Fëanor laughed then. “Turukáno came to me this morning, after Findekáno’s return. He pressed me for a gift for your family’s loyalty in light of all that you have lost and all his brother has returned to me.”

“I will speak to him,” Fingolfin said. “He should not have-”

“You shall speak to him and decide if you wish to leave for his new princedom.” 

Fingolfin froze, Fëanor’s eyes locked on his face. 

“I will not hold such against you. You may leave and dwell there forever, not to see me again. You may take your jewels if you wish, or leave them here and forsake the memories of what my madness and love granted you.” 

Fingolfin still did not respond, until Fëanor had turned and was walking down the hallway. 

“And if I wish to visit my son’s princedom, but not dwell there?”

Fëanor paused only for a minute. “You may visit him and dwell where you wish.”

The door opened then, a flurry of advisors awaiting news of the High-Prince’s return. 

Fingolfin took a moment to think of what had happened. 

First, he decided, he would take a bath. Then he would see his children, and learn more of what they thought. 

Then he would return to Fëanor’s rooms with his decision and supper, and see what relationship they could repair in the wake of everything.


End file.
